With Child
by Passionworks
Summary: Gift for Nikkel. So alone and so afraid, Azula just does not know how to let the words fall from her lips... Oneshot rated for mature sexual content, character death, and violent imagery.


**Author's Note: The idea for this piece has been floating around in my head for quite a while now. I enjoy writing stuff that involves the role of motherhood put on Azula and it certainly shows in many of my more recent fics. I hoped that, perhaps, just this once, I could write some very touching, lovable Ozula fan fic, but that completely backfired. I cannot believe I would write something this sad and morbid, and this is coming from a very tragic writer. There was quite a twist in the end of this; I imagined a peaceful moment between father, daughter, and child, not an instant, sudden act of death on the innocent. I feel as if the blood is on my hands –I am a slayer within my own words. I am going to say that I had to raise the rating of this from 'T' to 'M,' just because this certainly is not a positive piece of writing and can only be handled by more mature audiences.**

**I realize that I am writing many things in the second person point of view lately. It is my personal favorite tone to work with –considering that it is often called a challenge. My muse in my head speaks to me this way, so it is more of a conscious thing now, rather than something of difficulty.**

**I would still like to dedicate this to my friend, Nikkel, who made a couple of very lovely icons for TrueThinker and I. Plus, she made me one for DeviantArt. She certainly has some amazing Photoshop skills and I hope others can agree to that! I know I have said this a number of times to you, Nikkel, but I feel as if I cannot even begin to thank you enough. Perhaps this piece will fill the void that words have no way of describing. The only positive note that can come from this is that I believe that I successfully portrayed my poetic side that you love so much! Poetic Passion reigns supreme, even when she scribes something as satanic and vile as this…**

With Child

By: Passionworks

_"All this feeling here inside_

_One word ain't enough._

_The way to say it seems to hide_

_How can I say Love?"_

_-One Word_

_(Nancy Wilson of Heart from the 1982 album "Private Audition")_

In all those nights spent in the midst of flailing sheets, warm pools of blood and sweat, and drumming heartbeats, it never occurred to you that _life_ could begin inside of you. Swimming somewhere deep in your womb, a little heart pounds, two legs kick, and a tiny mouth suckles on a thumb. It all seems so heart-warming and touching to you. You imagine holding something born in your image, but yet, so _unlike_ you at the same time. You hear your tender, angelic voice singing sweet lullabies into its ear. You feel your fingers caress soft, ticklish skin. You stare lovingly into a toothless, but flawless smile. You laugh when it giggles and coos; you beam when it grows.

But a child _cries_ too; feelings are so easily hurt. And you ask yourself: once this child is born, will you offer a _gentle_ shoulder for tears to fall into? Or can you only _cause pain_ to another life? You consider its health. In a world so troublesome as the one you exist in, a deformity of any sort would be sure to slow it down. Would it die unexpectedly in the womb? Would it _lose_ in the struggle that is life? Would that _hurt_ you? Would you _feel_ any pang of remorse once existence slips from its tiny fingertips?

These questions boom and bounce off of the walls in your head. The pounding comes with a gripping headache, but the pain is rather numbing –you feel nothing at all. Secretly, you know better, much better. These are such silly little questions, and as much as they bother you to think about, they are the least of your worries –as far as you are concerned.

Because underneath those flailing sheets, mingling with those pools of blood and sweat, and among those drumming heartbeats, your husband's eyes run deep into your pale, blood-flushed flesh.

_And words leave you. They find an exit through your veins, bloodstream, pores –every open, gaping hole in your body. You do not know what to say and how to feel. How can you? Such things do not exist inside of you –your husband drained them from you long ago…_

………

You allow yourself some time. This odd silence is more _comforting_ than it should be. You begin to relax and consume the fact that you hold a _secret_ all your own. It soothes and calms you, as you lay in solitude, naked upon your bed. You do not feel the need to wrap a blanket around you, for loneliness has its own rewards. For once, you are on your own, drifting alone on your personal little raft, gulping down the fresh morning air. Your eyes peer into the depths of a deep, blue ocean. It is mesmerizing and crystal clear. Objects above it are its canvas and you are its focal point. As if staring intently into the mirror in your bedroom, you take in your own reflection. What frightens you most is that _you are not smiling._ You know why: joy has never had proper permission to reach and enter you. And you realize then that you are never alone. The noose around your neck _tightens_ and you find yourself slowly being pulled back into _reality._ The peaceful blue that surrounds you instantly disintegrates into a blood-soaked red you have grown to know so well. And you meet your husband's eyes in the middle of this living hell –_this will never change._

He caresses you, hands rubbing upon your rosy, embarrassed cheeks. He joins you on the bed and wraps his arms and legs around you, cocooning your body –concealing you from the world.

But as sudden as a flicker of light, he ceases to touch you. Only at this very moment does his absence_ terrorize_ you. On certain days, when you do not appeal to him, he punishes you in ways only he can. Your body tenses –you sense his anger long before he does. He swiftly slaps you across the face and your eyes burn as tears fall into your feathery pillow.

_"Do you have something you wish to tell me, Azula?"_

_And your heart skips a beat and shatters into a million pieces; the sharp, pointed edges draw blood and cut you deep…_

………

You shiver in this stillness; goose bumps raise the hairs on your back. A breeze from an open window catches your hair, his as well. He has rather long hair –you believe that he appears _stunning_ this way, but you contemplate your words. He is agitated at your silence; you see his nervous ticks. His lips part into a dirty scowl and his teeth are more like fangs –you swear that you can almost _see _blood coating his gums. But then, he crosses his arms and shifts his weight to the right side. His golden irises drip into yours menacingly. He sees _inside_ of you –sees the feelings and emotions you so desperately try to cover up.

Your mind races and you fumble over words. Sounds are emitted from your lungs, but nothing can be deciphered. You are stuttering, really –so unlike you, you must admit. Probably because you were _never prepared_ for this to start with, you understand that now.

But your body turns on you –turns against your own morals. You lunge forward and kiss him right on the lips. _Oh, but it makes you feel so vile._ He is briefly surprised by your act of dominance, but he allows you to win over him. His hands roam your neck, breasts, down your back and to your waist. Your hip brushes and grinds into his groin as you pleasure him.

Satisfied that he is no longer upset with you, you nibble at the lobe of his ear, your hot breath warming his cheeks. Your arms wrap delicately around his shoulders as you pull him closer to you.

_And with one last, unnecessary kiss, you whisper, "I have conceived, Father…"_

………

The months beyond this day are blissful, whimsical. It is the first time you know _love_ from your husband. He cuddles and holds you in his arms when waves of pain hit you; he offers you his hand when it hurts. You are new to this, but he has gone through it twice before with your own mother. His experience guides you through the depths of unknown, uncharted territory and he warmly accepts your physical metamorphosis: your personality change, bouts of hunger and blatant refusals. He takes it in with _open arms._

He touches your fully round abdomen and he smiles, nuzzling your chin with undeniable affection. You gaze at him and cock your head. Yes, this is the man you love: _the one who cares for you in sickness and in health, the one who blessed you with your own life and handed you another._

_Maybe this time you could forget the bumps and bruises, throw away the scars and spilled blood, and erase the hours of endless torture. You wish this so badly because the world has changed for the better and your husband happens to be the center of yours. Perhaps the sun shines on the horizon not to invigorate you with a cold-blooded fire, but to warm your skin and help you see the light…_

………

Your eyelids are heavy and your body is weary, but you are in high spirits. In your arms, you hold your child –_your son._ He sleeps _heavenly,_ never waking to a single disturbance. Lying flat upon your abdomen, the baby's heart follows the rhythm of yours: two beats to the same drummer. His head snuggles into your neck and his soft sighs are like _music_ to your ears. Indeed, from the ashes of bitter memories, this life –new and full of youthful exuberance –will sprout and grow like an oak tree in a desolate forest: _the dawn of a new day, a clean slate._

The boy peers into his father's eyes. He looks on lovingly, a small smile forming on his face. Your husband stares back into those newborn-blue eyes, hoping to see just a _sliver_ of strength and greatness.

But he sees nothing –just a defenseless, dependent thing, a complete _waste_ of his energy. It hits you that you have failed him in a way; you turned against his wishes. But clutching your baby to your breast, _you beg to differ._ It was _not_ your husband's blood spilled upon the rags beneath your feet. _No, this was your effort, your selfless sacrifice._ And in one daring act, you grasp his hand and press it to the child's beating heart.

_"This is your child, Father."_

_He has no choice but to relent. You are defiant, he realizes; you got it from him, after all. And maybe he regrets everything he gave you. He cannot erase it, but he sure can tame it…_

………

Your husband does not love you anymore, _not that he ever did._ Those months you recall in the back of your head _never_ happened to you –it was just too good to be true. It was all just a dream, a _reoccurring_ dream. His real responsibility to you is to be your teacher: to instill lessons you will _never forget._

As you sleep, he rolls from the bed, careful not to disturb or wake you. To his right, there is a little wooden crib –the child sleeps so soundly that he seems _frozen_ in time: _untouchable for one, single moment._

But this is _vulnerability_ to your husband, a source of weakness and disgrace. He glares spitefully at the infant, pondering his move carefully. He circles the crib, footsteps heavy upon the floor, and suddenly _stops._ His hand touches his son's chest as it rises and falls, heart beating in the middle of it. But then he backs away; sweat coating his brow and forehead. _What is this –fear, concern?_ He has no soul at all, never had a conscience either, so what stops him this second? It is a binding feeling –he is cornered into some _invisible_ wall, crowded by emotions his head cannot feel.

But it _breaks_ like a rope, snapping and unraveling. With a swift, quick motion, he penetrates a concealed dagger into the baby's chest, slashing a bloody, fleshy cross, deep into his heart. As the liquid gushes madly from the wound he releases one pitiful, fruitless shriek before closing his eyes on the world _forever._

You wake to the noise –_oh, it sounds so horrible as it rings in your ears._ Your eyes focus but all you see is dark crimson blood –_all over him._ You rush over to your child and scoop him up into your arms, but the damage has been done. Clouded and masked by intertwined slashes, the heart no longer has the _capacity_ to drum a single beat.

Smirking in your anguish, your husband places a bloody, stained arm upon your shoulder. He teases your hair and kisses your lips. You try to pull away, but he has you in a firm stranglehold. His grip is _strong_ –not that this is a protective gesture to you; it is more like a snake onto prey.

_And he whispers crudely in your ear, "You know, Azula, I can give you life, but I can take it as well…"_


End file.
